


to wither in denial

by fictitiousregrets



Category: The Alloy of Law - Brandon Sanderson
Genre: F/M, musician au, this is garbage
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-17
Updated: 2015-12-17
Packaged: 2018-05-07 05:23:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,118
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5444765
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fictitiousregrets/pseuds/fictitiousregrets
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Music was Marasi's first love, and Wayne knew there was no room for him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	to wither in denial

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Colms](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Colms/gifts).



> Happy birthday, Hannah! This is your present. It's not stunning, but a valiant attempt was made and I hope you like it.
> 
> Title is from The Civil Wars' "Disarm" because clearly I am out for blood.

On any given night, Marasi could be expected to be at her piano, tugging together melodies that popped up in her head. She was always ready to make something new, that one, and it was with no small wonder that Wayne watched her do it, calloused left hand fingers at the ready on the neck of an acoustic guitar.

            His fingers ghosted along with her melodies, his right hand motionless on the top side of his guitar’s body. Once her fingers rested, his began to move in an exact echo of what she had created, if not with a few liberties here and there; he had to keep her on her toes, now.

            So when she began to sing along with his playing, he kept going through his surprise—he hadn’t seen that coming.

            When he got the hang of what she was doing, he added soft harmonies to what she sang, and slowly, slowly, it all came together.

            That was how they made music.

            Once they started, it was hard to stop—they kept creating song after song, and at first they were about very mundane topics, like losing people you love and dealing with guilt and regret, and once, he had opened up about a crime he had committed when he was very young; he was still paying penance for it. But she helped him through them, quietly allowing the mallets of her instrument to hit the strings and slam through the pain that had built up like a brick wall. She demolished it, even though she didn’t have to.

            And his strings had tugged at her heart’s: she thought she would never be enough for anyone, and every single chord he played said it was okay, he was here and she would always be enough here. Her shoulders were always so tense, so bunched up—it’s like she never allowed herself to relax. When he played some silly songs, he was surprised when she would sing along, after a time.

            He found he was happy. For a while, he hadn’t thought he would find someone to play with like this. His old music partner had lost his wife and fallen into a deep depression; Wayne didn’t know if he would ever make music again.

            For a few months, that was it: singing together, playing together, laughing about songs Wayne had haphazardly written about hats, and hanging out at playgrounds to get inspiration from the dizziness that swinging too high can give you.

            “Wayne,” she’d called one night, when he was on his third glass of bourbon and the strings of his guitar had left impressions in his fingertips. “I’m cutting you off.”

            “Aw, Marasi, no,” he had whined. “C’mon. One more, I’ve got this. Honest.”

            “Nope,” Marasi said brightly, taking his glass away. “You’re cut off, and we’re not playing anymore for the night.”

            He had pouted. “You never lemme have any fun.”

            She had seen that face and laughed, and it was one of the prettiest things he’d ever seen. In a completely unpretty way, of course.

            He knew she would always belong to music first, and it to her, and he was happy for that. So when she told him to stay the night—firmly, and with a glass of water in her hand to accentuate her order, he said only: “Yes, ma’am.”

            Marasi dumped a bunch of blankets and a pillow on the couch, and told him that his guest toothbrush was the red one in the bathroom. Then she went to bed, and he went to work setting up the couch.

            As he’d fallen asleep, he pushed every single non-friendly feeling he had for Marasi Colms right down the drain of his hollow heart.

            She was one of the best friends he’d ever had, right up there next to Wax. He couldn’t do anything to ruin that.

 

* * *

 

Marasi was in deep shit. She and Wayne had a whole twelve songs to write for their new album, and she had no good ideas. Where the _hell_ was Wayne when she needed him?

            Liquor store. Of course. One of these days, she was going to gently suggest that alcohol was not a dependent self-soother, mostly because it was so addictive and poisonous. But probably not as gently as she should.

            Either way, they had an album to write and only a few months to write it in, and the Copper Coins did _not_ produce subpar material. She was determined to do her level best for this first attempt, and she was going to drag Wayne with her.

            He walked out with two whole bottles of scotch, and she stopped in front of him, crossing her arms over her chest.

            The effect was staggering. Wayne slouched slightly and the bottles drooped dangerously in his arms. “I have company coming over soon?”

            “No, you don’t,” Marasi said, and took the bottles out of his arms. “Walk with me.”

            Wayne followed along without protesting. “What’s going on?”

            “What’s going on is that we have an album to write, and you’re coming with me.”

 

* * *

 

Wayne’s fingers tapped the guitar strings ineffectively. “Muuuuussssiiiiiccccc,” he droned.

            With her fingers on her keys for the last half hour, Marasi was inclined to agree. “We wrote so many songs before. What the hell happened?”

            “I dunno. Same stuff what always happens, yeah?” He made a face. “Writer’s block.”

            Marasi stood up and took the guitar out of his hands, setting it down. “We’re taking five for tea.”

            As she walked into the kitchen and he followed, he mused, “Y’know, Five For Tea would’ve made a stellar band name if there was three more of us.”

            “Find me another three musicians equally talented as us, and you’ve got it,” Marasi said dryly, spooning loose tea into two infusers in separate cups. “You want this album to be themed?”

            “Nah, that’s overboard. ‘Sides, what would the theme even be?”

            She shrugged. “Tea?”

            “A _team_ ed album,” he said, and cracked up at his own pun. She snorted, leaning against the counter.

            “Everyone writes about unrequited love or lost love,” she mused after five minutes of silence as they thought.

            Wayne was very, very quiet. She’d never noticed those very dark circles under his eyes before, but studying his face was an exercise in attention to detail. He leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed over his chest. The kettle started whistling, and Marasi moved to take it off the burner, pouring the water over the tea leaves. When she handed Wayne his cup, he thanked her quietly.

            He was usually a firecracker in a library, so Marasi was more than worried.

            When they picked up their instruments again, his fingers went right to playing, and she recognized the scale immediately from the melancholy, bittersweet notes it contained. It was a song for grieving and yearning for something new.

            The words he put to it put an ache in her bones. He sang about a hollow love wrought by past mistakes and she recognized every tone. When it was over, she turned to him and asked, “Wayne, you don’t have to put that out there.”

            “I kinda do.” He exhaled through his nostrils and smiled at her. “No one got rid of any demons quietly, Mar.”

            She looked him in the eyes and nodded. Brave of him to do so. He’d been dealing with this for so long, she was ready to get him some outside help, but that look in his eyes—he was ready to move on.

            Her fingers moved across the keys, finding a transitional melody to something sweet and hopeful.

 

* * *

 

“Wayne!” Marasi shouted, pounding on his apartment door. “Wayne, goddamn it, open your door! Come on!”

            “Hold your bloody horses, mate, I’m getting dressed and you said you ain’t want to see any of this!”

            She felt her cheeks grow hot and put her hands on her hips, arms akimbo. She was ready for him when he opened the door with an amused smile.

            “We made it.”

            “What?” The smile slipped off his face in confusion.

            Her face brightened. “We’re on the Billboard charts!”

            His response was better than she could have ever hoped for, except it involved hugging her and _lifting_ her, spinning her around.

            “Put me down, you rough hooligan!” she yelled, partially kidding. The lift was a bit much, she thought, but after years of friendship, she found she didn’t mind that much.

            “When’d you find out?” He asked after letting her down, eyes shining.

            “This morning. I came right over here to tell you that we’re working on the second album _right now_.”

            Wayne laughed. “Mate, slow down. We just got on the charts, come in for a cuppa, would you?”

            “Alright,” she huffed.

 

* * *

 

Marasi’s first and only love was music. From the time she had first had a violin forced upon her and loathed it, she had grown to love the mechanics of music. The violin was abandoned for the piano, but the theory stuck and her love grew to outstanding proportions.

            This was fine, except for the part where Wayne was slowly beginning to become intertwined with that love.

            “Oh godohgodohgodSteriswhatdoIdo,” she blurted, pacing back and forth quickly.

            Steris had her hands folded in her lap. “Marasi, I’m not entirely certain what you’re trying to say.”

            She would have asked anyone but her sister, except for the fact that most of her friends were never in this situation. They had had normal dating lives, where their gentlemen suitors had asked them on a date and they had said yes and they had gotten to know each other like that. She could have Googled it, but why ask strangers on the internet when she could ask Steris and fluster her instead?

            “I like him,” she said, averting her eyes. “Wayne, that is. Um.” She could see Steris tense up in the corner of her eye. “What.”

            “Oh.” Steris pressed her lips together in a line. “Are you… sure?”

            “Believe me, I had to think about it for a little bit.” Marasi clutched herself. “He’s so brave, Steris. And funny. And smart, after you poke him a bit to get him to show it.” She had to pause to gather her courage before she could admit, “and he’s not that bad to look at either.”

            “For starters, he hasn’t got anything like Wax’s terrible pencil moustache,” Steris said wryly, and Marasi laughed.

            “Yes, exactly.”

            Wayne burst in, yelling, “Marasi! I got a _fucking’ fantastic_ idea for the second album! Are you sitting down?”

            He paused, and she allowed him to take inventory of the fact that she was still standing.

            “Please sit, you’re gonna needa hear this. Oh. Steris.”

            Steris stood and turned to Marasi, “Don’t wait,” she said as her parting advice before she turned back to the door and left.

            Well, that was helpful.

            As Wayne explained his idea, she thought that it was brilliant, but she also couldn’t stop staring at his mouth. This was going to be a problem. She’d never let anything like this get in the way of her work, and why should she start now?

            “Wayne,” she said.

            “Hold your hat, Marasi, I’m tryin’ to explain this brilliant idea.”

            “ _Wayne._ ”

            “Yes’m?”

            She stood up and smiled. “I think it’s brilliant.”

            Wayne stopped. “You do?”

            “Yeah.”

            “Oh. Well, good,” he said, but his eyes flicked down to her mouth and back up and really, that was all the signal she needed.

            Marasi was a very smart young woman, and elementary psychology said that one of the most surefire signs that someone wants you is the flicker of eye contact between eyes and mouth. So even though her whole body was screaming at her that this was dangerous and she should run, she stepped forward and rose onto her toes, slid her arms around Wayne’s neck, and leaned in.

            He closed the distance, his arms wrapping around her waist and holding her tightly, as if she was going to disappear in front of his eyes. She had expected the very first part, but not the latter. Not this.

            When they parted for air, she pressed her forehead against his, her hand in his hair. She thought she could feel his mind racing—he was so brilliant in such a subtle way, and it thrilled her.

            “Shit,” he said softly.

            “Shit,” she agreed. Marasi got off the tips of her toes, her calves screaming, and felt Wayne reluctantly loosening his grip.

            “Gotta hand that one to you,” he said, grinning. “Didn’t see it coming.”

            She grinned right back. “Gotta keep you on your toes.”

            He laughed, and in that laugh, she thought she could hear the first notes of their new album already.

**Author's Note:**

> The "tea"med pun was a play on themed, for those of you who couldn't puzzle it out!
> 
> Go wish Hannah a happy birthday at http://kelsiers.tumblr.com :)


End file.
